White Noise

They’ve always seen me as a thing, a perfect thing that doesn’t need to know but yet everything was explained. And told. Told how to behave. How to dress, how to speak.

Past trees that pattern against a canvas of smothering grey; choking russets and orange, leaching verdant hills to the swirling darkness of the bay, I will return, braver than before, my voice will rail against their tired, old noise.